


What You are, What You Are Not

by SolarMorrigan



Series: Solar's 007 Fest 2019 [12]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: 007 Fest, Angst, Dubious Consent, M/M, Prompt Fill, Rough Sex, adding that in just in case, possibly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-27 02:47:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19781674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolarMorrigan/pseuds/SolarMorrigan
Summary: Though he might spend time pretending otherwise, Bond knows exactly who he is, and he is not a good person.He knows.





	What You are, What You Are Not

**Author's Note:**

> Day 12! So this happened. Fills "Identity" on the [Angst Prompt Table](https://mi6cafe.wordpress.com/007-fest/007-fest-2019-prompt-tables/) and Anon Prompt 14 on the [MI6 Cafe Prompt Exchange](https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1LwtIoqppLgPC3D0bJ5HF7ZcIJEnNgGmQcm21977FGJc/edit#gid=628702862%22)
> 
> The dubious consent warning is there just in case; I thought it would be better safe than sorry. If you'd like a little more detail to see whether or not this is for you, check the end notes

Q is still there when Bond returns.

Of course he is. He’s always there.

He’s always there without pity or judgement when Bond comes out of a spiral. He always there with this sort of resignation that says it doesn’t matter what Bond does, Q will always do his best to pick him back up.

Some days it makes Bond furious, because he has no idea what to do with it.

Some days he’s just pathetically grateful for it.

Today he’s still drunk and isn’t sure which it is yet.

He ambles into the kitchen, trying to be steady, as if he isn’t sort of trashed and entirely exhausted, and leaning against the doorjamb casually, as if he hasn’t just stumbled through the door at 3 AM reeking of booze and a bar’s back alley with blood on his shirt that may or may not be his.

Q is sitting at the kitchen table, his dexterous, precious hands wrapped around a mug. He looks terribly unsurprised.

He takes a slow sip from the mug, sharp eyes assessing Bond for damage.

“Got it all out of your system?” he asks, once he’s put the mug down.

Bond shrugs. _Maybe._

Q nods. “Bathroom,” he says, crisp and clear like a kill order coming down the comms.

Bond obeys.

“Clothes off,” Q instructs when they reach the bathroom.

There’s nothing sexual about it (not yet); Q just washes his hands and pulls out the first aid kit while Bond strips and leaves his wrecked clothes in a messy pile by the door. It’s part of the ritual.

Q’s hands are always cold, fingers forever flexing to work the stiffness out. They’re clinical on Bond’s skin, sure and steady and competent. Q’s gaze is intense, calculating as he works his way over bruises and scrapes, as if he’s solving a problem – fixing another broken piece of Q branch tech.

The look needles at Bond. How many times will they do this? How many times have they done it already? Bond will get an itch, will go out, get pissed, get into fights, stumble home (home?) like an old, battered dog and every time, Q will just patch him up. The next day they’ll go back to playing house, as if Bond is really capable of domesticity. As if Q isn’t broken inside.

Bond flexes his hands once Q has dabbed salve over his raw knuckles. There isn’t much to fix tonight; most of the blood wasn’t his. When Q draws back, tossing the used cotton pads and plaster wrappers in the trash, Bond stills the urge to grab for him.

He waits.

Q washes his hands again, drying them slowly, and Bond curls his hands into fists. He waits.

Finally, Q turns back to him, face still calm, gaze still sharp. “Anything else?” he asks, and that’s what Bond was waiting for; it’s permission, in a way.

At least, that’s how Bond takes it.

He puts his hands on Q’s waist and pulls him forward, drags him into his lap and leaves one hand digging hard into his hip while the other fists in his hair and pulls him down to meet Bond’s mouth.

Q kisses back as best he can, but he can’t quite keep up; Bond is intense, overwhelming, frustrated and angry. He bites at Q’s lips and presses his tongue past them, seeking and claiming space. Q groans when Bond’s hand moves from his hip to his arse, squeezing, and bucks down against Bond’s hardening cock.

Bond shoves Q off his lap, stands and crowds him against the bathroom door. There are a few more kisses, or things that resemble them, while Bond scrabbles at Q’s flies. He turns Q around, face to the door, and yanks his trousers down, follows with his pants, rubs briefly at the crease of Q’s arse while Q pushes out against his hand.

There’s lube in the medicine chest and Bond uses it. One finger, then a second well before he’d usually push in, when they’re in bed and Bond is pretending he can be gentle with things. Q is panting against the door by the time Bond gets a third finger in, his own fingers curling and scratching at the wall, but otherwise just standing there. Just taking it.

Bond growls, pulls his fingers out and shoves his cock in, and Q groans. It sounds more like pain than pleasure, but Bond pushes through. His rhythm is sloppy at best, thrusting hard into Q with little finesse or consideration for his pleasure.

It’s not even about pleasure. Not really. It’s about wondering if this pattern repeats enough, will Q come to his senses? If Bond fucks him hard enough, will he understand that this is all Bond can ever be?

Alcohol and blood and sex. That’s who Bond is. That’s all he’ll ever be.

He reaches around to pull at Q’s wilting erection, thumbs under the head in an attempt to revive it because even if this isn’t entirely about pleasure, Bond doesn’t leave a job half done. Q makes a little sound when Bond thumbs the tip of his prick and clenches down around Bond’s cock. It’s good – already hot and tight, and now tighter, just slick enough, and after a few more thrusts Bond is coming inside him, twitching his hips back and forth until his cock has gone soft and slips from Q’s arse.

Bond turns Q again, shoving his back to the door and then dropping to his knees. He takes Q’s cock into his mouth without preamble, and Q gives a choked shout. It doesn’t take long to work Q up again, doesn’t take long to have him thrusting shallowly at Bond’s mouth.

When Bond pulls back for air, he can see his own come slipping out of Q’s hole, trickling down the insides of his thighs, and Bond runs his fingers through it, pushing the slick mess back up into Q. Q whines with it, sensitive and sore, but comes with a cry when Bond puts his lips back around him and sucks.

They take a moment to catch their breath. It’s silent but for their uneven panting, and eventually even that quiets down.

They clean up. They go to bed.

There’s still something itching under Bond’s skin, but he’s tired now, and by morning the urge to lash out—to drink, to hit, to fuck, to break—will have settled enough that maybe he’ll be able to kiss Q gently and bring him tea. He’ll be sore enough that he won’t want to walk to get it, Bond knows.

They lay in the darkness for some time, long enough that Q must think Bond’s fallen asleep, because he rolls to face him, drags cold, gentle fingers down his forearm.

“I love you,” Q murmurs, and what’s left of Bond’s heart breaks just a little, “but sometimes I don’t like you very much.”

**Author's Note:**

> Notes on potential dubcon: Bond initiates sex with Q when he is drunk and angry. Q does reciprocate and participate as much as he is able, but he never gives vocal consent and the situation does not lend itself well to enthusiastic consent
> 
> Also posted on [Tumblr](https://solarmorrigan.tumblr.com/post/186238608258/what-you-are-what-you-are-not-james-bond-00q%22) if that's more your jam


End file.
